Why do we do anything, really?

We shrivel up inside a little when we think about making art but just don't. It can only stay trapped up there for so long and eventually we can't not do it. Who cares if it's official or perfect or finished. Does it influence the pattern of your heartbeat? Bring it to us, like a cat would with a dead mouse. We don't let good carnage go to waste.

It's nice to know we're not the only ones trying to remember how to grow and learn and play.